


I Don't Know What To Do With Gray

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-14 19:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11789838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: John Smith is perfectly content: he has friends, he plays guitar for fun, he's studying for his doctorate. He isn't close to his family, but you can't have everything. He hasn't met his soulmate yet, but then, he's only twenty-three.Then, all of a sudden, he can see in color.Shit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More characters, relationships, and tags will be added as the story progresses. However, as a warning up front, this story does deal with two characters with a large age gap and how their relationship develops, including while Clara is a minor. There will be a chapter with some underage content later on, some kinda-freaky threatened violence at a later point, and well, don't get too attached to Danny when he shows up. (Sorry!)
> 
> Also, just so everyone is on the same page as far as mechanics goes: everyone can only see in grayscale until they get within about six feet/two meters of their soulmate. There is sometimes a bit of lag between getting close enough and the color shift happening, or between the shift and the person noticing.
> 
> As always, thanks to my excellent betas, imaginary_golux and infinite_regress! Terrific writers and reviewers. Also, title stolen from Garrus Vakarian. Sorry, buddy.

And to think, John reflected later, the day had started out so well. 

“It’s Amy!” Rory’s voice had greeted him when he picked up the phone. “Well, Melody.”

John tried not to yawn into the receiver. “Huh--” he had begun, before remembering the shortlist of baby names his best friends had been considering. “Congratulations!” he corrected himself immediately. He wasn’t sure if he would want to have a child fresh out of college, but then he (unlike some people he could name) hadn’t been seeing color together since he was six. He shrugged; he had plenty of time to find his soulmate and see the world afresh in more ways than one. “Happy birthday? What exactly do people say on these occasions, again?”

“Just hush up and get over to the hospital, you bastard.”

“Watch that language--you’re a father, now.” Rory laughed at John’s quip and they hung up.

Thirty minutes later, he was washed, fed, and in a hospital room. Amy, Rory, and Brian, Rory’s dad, were already there.

“Look who’s up before noon,” Amy teased. “I see you didn’t take the time to dress for the occasion.”

He looked down sheepishly at his plaid trousers and dilapidated hoodie. “I didn’t want to detract from your maternal glow.” He leaned in and prodded Melody’s pudgy nose. “Cute little goober.”

“Watch it, you.”

“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Pond?” (“It’s Williams,” said Rory, convincing no-one.) While they were focused on Melody, a nurse had entered the room . Her name-tag read “Rita.” She had curly dark hair and bright eyes; her skin, so far as John could tell, was a pleasant medium grey.

“Yes?” Amy asked.

“As you know, there were some complications with the birth. With your permission, we’d like to move Melody down to the neonatal ward--just to run a few tests, and so you can get some rest.” The nurse smiled sympathetically. “I heard you had a long labor.”

“Tell me about it,” Amy groaned. “Suppose I’ve got to let her out of my sight eventually; you can have her. Go on, then, you lot, I’m knackered.”

John tried not to look too envious of the bounce in Rory’s step as they walked down the hallway. After all, he was only twenty-three. Plenty of time to settle down and pop out a few tykes of his own. Later. When he had a little more time in his life beyond his doctorate studies, his band, his friends… Still, he found himself humming quietly, walking through the rows of slumbering rugrats but alone with his thoughts. 

A tap came on his shoulder. “Yee-ah!” Ah, only Rory.

“I said, I’m going for a coffee. Want anything?” John shook his head and as Rory started to leave another nurse came up to chastise him.

“What did you go and do that for? You’ve woken them all up!” It was true, and some of them were starting to cry. John began to regret, on multiple levels, thinking fondly of child-rearing before.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I won’t do it ag-ah!” The nurse was blonde. Properly blonde. Yellow blonde. “Gah!” he said. “You’re blonde!”

“Yes,” said the nurse.

“No,” said John. “I mean - I think I’ve just started seeing in colors.” He could feel his face heat - no - _redden_. Ah yes, red, that was a color. “I don’t suppose that would be you?”

“No,” replied the nurse, still somewhat dubious but more understanding now. “Afraid I’ve seen colors for years.”

A growing sense of dread began to fill John. He looked around the room. Apart from the nurse, Rory, who had stopped by the door, and Brian, he was - well - _almost_ alone. “Oh no,” he said. “Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no, no.”

“What’s wrong?” Brian asked.

“I - erm - you’re blond too.”

“Congratulations!” Brian said, then looked around the room. “Ah. Yes.” Brian withdrew a pen, a pad of paper, and a measuring tape from his pockets.

“How do you - _never mind_ ,” John said. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll thank me later,” Brian told him. “Now hold this and stand still,” he added, handing John one end of the measuring tape. Brian methodically marked off a two-meter radius and circled John like the end of a compass, dutifully jotting down names on his pad of paper as he went.

“Reid, Harrold; Gladstone, Lydia; Wyrcyk, Teofila,” he muttered under his breath. John stood, feeling awkwardly like a maypole, until Brian had completed the circuit. Usually this was a charmingly awkward ritual, complete with two people hopping frantically about in crowds, trying to catch sight of the stranger who was the most significant person in their lives, not a methodical totting-up of, well, tots.

“There you go, m’boy,” Brian finished triumphantly, handing John the list of names in written in his meticulous script.

“Brilliant,” John said with a scowl. “A list of potential dates lined up for the next time I feel like robbing the cradle.”

“Congratulations, mate!” Rory said. “Some folks never meet theirs! I don’t think some folks even _have_ them.” I know, John thought.

“Thanks,” John scraped out, as politely as he usually managed anyway. “Think I’d best have that coffee, on second thought, Rory.”

Twenty-three had never seemed so old.

***

Clara Oswald was utterly distressed. There had been a Noise, a loud, sad Noise that had dared to intrude upon her pleasantly warm nap-cocoon. This was manifestly unsuitable to reality, and she screamed into the void until the Noise complied and went away. 

She had no idea that anything more momentous than that had happened. The ceiling? White. The lights? White. Her blanket? Warm, snuggly white. She yawned, exhausted by her effort, and went back to sleep. 

***

Across the glass from him sat Missy Smith, wunderkind perpetrator of the most notorious Ponzi scheme in Britain in the last decade. Aka the Mistress, brutal serial killer. Aka the only family John had.

“Good to see you again, big brother,” Missy purred. “It does get rather boring in here.”

“I had guessed,” John said through gritted teeth. “Given the number of times you’ve tried to escape.”

“You’re not _still_ sore about that girl I killed the last time I was out, are you?” Missy asked. “She was so...bland.” A bitter silence. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can’t I just be checking in on my little sister? No?” John leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. “I found my soulmate this morning.”

Missy clapped her hands together like a demented child. “How precious!” she cooed sardonically. “Will you bring her around to visit, too?”

“No,” John rumbled.

“Spoilsport.”

“She’s less than a day old.”

Missy brayed with laughter. “You _pervert_!”

He glowered at her. “It’s not as though I had a choice in the matter. It just...happened.” 

“You never just accept that when _I_ say it!”

“Missy, when you say that, you’ve usually killed someone.”

She rolled her eyes at him in response. “I hope I never get involved in that filthy soulmate business.”

“Don’t worry,” John snarked. “I think it requires you to have a soul.”

***

Clara didn’t realize how unusual she was until she went to school. 

“And if anyone can tell the difference between these two squares,” the teacher said, “please raise your hand.” 

Clara raised her hand at once. Was this some kind of test? If so, it was awfully silly. 

“Ah, well, there’s always one or two,” her teacher said with a trace of what Clara would recognize later as bitterness. Clara Oswald, age six, however, was merely puzzled. “And how long have you been able to see colors...Clara?” the teacher asked, consulting her seating chart.

“I’ve always been able to see them,” she said. (“That’s impossible!” chirped a boy behind her.) “...can’t everyone?”

“No,” her teacher corrected her, “everyone cannot.” 

_Oh_ , Clara thought. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

***

As far as he knew, there wasn’t a manual for what to do for when you knew your future soulmate was one of twelve infants. “So I guess I get to make it up as I go along,” John muttered to himself. He rapped on the door belonging to one Lydia Gladstone. “Good afternoon, John Smith, health and safety.” He flashed an ID. “Is Lydia in?” 

“Yeah…” The young woman at the door, likely Lydia’s mother, raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, what’s this about?”

“Just doing a bit of a survey. Should just take a few minutes.”

“Sure, whatever. Hang on, I’ll fetch her. Lyd! Nice man wants to ask you a few questions.”

He ran through a handful of pat questions, during which Lydia primarily sucked on her fist. He tried not to wrinkle his nose. She was three, after all. She was entitled to be a little disgusting. Besides, she couldn’t see a spot of color. And perhaps his soulmate was a platonic bond. That was a comforting thought. 

“You doing anything tonight?” Mrs. Gladstone asked, cutting into his reverie.

“Beg pardon?” 

“Look, I’m a single lady, you’re fit and good with kids, and my sister’s watching Lydia tonight. You want to get a pint?”

He inspected Mrs. Gladstone critically. Attractive enough, probably. Very likely a platonic soulbond in his future. What the hell. “Yes, let’s.”

***

“I hope my soulmate isn’t a boy,” Clara confided in her best friends. “Boys are gross.”

“You don’t think your dad is gross,” Nina pointed out. “And he’s a boy.”

“He’s a grown-up; that’s different.” Clara concluded with the logic and experience of a ten-year-old. 

“ _I_ like boys,” Melody said with a shrug. “They’re cute. Kind of helpless sometimes, but cute.”

“Girls are cute.” Nina added.

“Girls _are_ cute,” Clara agreed.

“Duh,” Melody said, and that, as it so often was, was the end of the conversation.

***

On the bright side, he had plenty of time to let this mess solve itself. His list was down to six, now. Four who couldn’t see a spot of color as personally discovered before he became concerned that the police might take a dim view of his ‘investigations.’ One hit by a lorry; freak accident. And one very publicly announced she was bonded to part of something called a One Direction during a concert. He wasn’t sure about that last one, but he crossed her name off nonetheless. Perhaps by the time he or she was old enough to have a proper conversation with, this would have sorted itself out. Or, you know, he could die alone and unloved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Clara wait for their friends to arrive, then, much later, have an ill-advised encounter at a bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end for trigger warnings.

“Amy? Rory?” John tried the door, and, finding it open, continued inside. “Melody?” he called, catching a glimpse of a smaller, female figure.

“Um. No, actually.” She cocked her head at him. “Hello?”

He cast about for something to fiddle with and seized upon a stray rubber band. “Hello. What’re you doing here?” he managed between elastic riffs. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he added after seeing her amused frown.

“Waiting to meet a friend.”

“Same.” He slouched into a chair. “Unfortunately, she’s running a bit late.”

“That’s Mels for you.” 

“That your friend?” Her round head bobbed agreement. He sat, strummed on the rubber band, realized she was waiting for him to continue. “You don’t have many. At least not your own age.” The girl gasped. Rude of him to say, then, he determined, not just obvious from the fact that she was waiting alone for one notoriously late friend to arrive. Bugger. _But_ , he noted, _she hasn’t stomped out in a fit_. “You’re more comfortable around people your parents’ age.” Otherwise he couldn’t imagine why she was still talking to him after he had so clearly insulted her.

“Maybe I just like people with grey hair,” she teased. Well, still more pepper than salt, really. Some urge deep within her wanted to tangle her hands in it.

Across the room, the penny dropped. “You can see in color. That’s what makes you different from most of your peers, why you prefer older people.”

_That’s incredibly reductionist_ , an older and more intellectually-savvy Clara would later shout back across the years. “That’s not very nice,” managed her younger self as the moment crystallized into a memory.

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Do they call you names? Bully you?”

“That’s an awful lot of questions,” she retorted, and there is that armored smirk again. “Maybe I should ask you why you’re so comfortable around a girl young enough to be your daughter?”

He flinched and she realized, too late, that she’d hit a nerve.

***

Another boring week. Clara sighed and slumped as if it would help her melt into her hard plastic chair. 

“Looks like you had a dull weekend.” Nina slung her bag under her own chair.

“Wasn’t too bad. Mum took me driving around a parking lot.” Clara twitched. “You seem oddly happy for a Monday. Spill.” Behind them, Melody leaned forward, intrigued.

“Guess who met her soulmate this weekend?”

“That’s brilliant! Who is she?” 

“One of my big brother’s friends at uni, which is kind of weird.”

“Eh, that’s not such a big age gap, once you’re a little older.”

“Says our Impossible Girl,” Melody snorted. “Seriously, you probably share a birthday with the loser.”

“Like you, loser?” Clara teased back.

“Honestly, you two, get a room.” They had had a fling, as it happened. But they were better friends. “Anyway, I meant that she’s friends with Freddie, you jerks,” Nina interjected.

“Oh, yeah, that would be weird.” Melody said, and shared a shudder with Clara. “Who wants to date a family friend?”

***

Clara wasn’t going to ask where Mels had scrounged up the fake ID that proudly proclaimed her to be Oswin Oswald, age 19. She was just glad to be someone else for the night. And if that someone else could plunk down a couple of quid and come away with a pint, so much the better.

And hey, if she could get laid to go with getting drunk, better still, she decided, circling about a very fit fellow. Prematurely grey, but those eyes. Definitely glad she had put on her flirty skirt this evening. Plain black just didn’t suit her.

John scowled at his scotch. “So much for joining your best mates for a couple drinks.” Couple being the operative word, since Amy and Rory had run off to do...married-people-things early in the night, leaving him to drink his way over the hill alone. 

“You expecting a reply?” The question lilts over his shoulder, and he turns. 

“Aren’t you a little young?”

“Old enough to know what I want.” _That’s better, Oswald. Given that you didn’t drive him off with your first pass, but not by much._ She takes a long pull from her drink as she sits, brushes his leg with her foot as she fidgets, tries to pass it off as a Move. She tries not to frown when he leans back, uncomfortable.

“Let’s take you home.” He downed the last of his drink, because some things shouldn’t go to waste, and settles the tab before heading to the back exit. The fewer people who saw him leave with an underage girl, the better.

“Better be your place, then.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “My place is a wreck.” This was, strictly speaking, not a lie; she hasn’t cleaned her room since the last prognosis.

“Well, you aren’t coming home to my flat,” he insisted.

“Okay,” she pressed on. “Compromise. Here works.” And before he can properly twig to what she’s said, she’s got his prick out in a back alley. 

“The hell?!” He tried not to shove her away too hard, but she staggered back and dropped her purse. A plan filtered through the whisky as he tucked himself away, and he grabbed the fallen handbag. “Oswin Oswald,” he read, squinting through blurry vision. “Unlikely.” (But why does that name look familiar? Probably just a student of his.) He flicked the card into a dumpster. (“Oi!” she protests. “Mels charged me twenty quid for that!”) “Here we go,” he exulted, finding a different ID with what he hoped was her real name, date of birth, and address because he wasn’t going to add ‘spying on a teenage girl’ to the night’s list of poor decisions. “And here you go,” he continued, grabbing her by the hand and frog-marching her to the street. “Cabby!” He forced an unsteady Clara into the back of the black cab. “Take my friend here home.” He mimed drinking and handed the driver the identification and a few tenners. “Cheers.”

“Cheers, you absolute wanker,” Clara shouted from her disheveled sprawl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, this chapter features an underage Clara sticking her hand in the Doctor's pants without his consent. Oops? Doesn't go any further than that.
> 
> Also oblique references to Clara's mother's death.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero and heroine finally have a proper conversation. Among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW and also features a not-quite-student-teacher relationship. And possibly an unhealthy amount of sex-wordplay. Of which three I am only apologizing for the one.

He was forty-four now. He had a professorship, an office, and a secretary. Nice chap. Little overprotective, in his own way. He had a soulmate. Somewhere. Possibly a student at this very university. Which would be incredibly awkward. 

Fortunately, that someone was not Bill Potts, his favorite student. Bill was a) extremely gay, b) paired off with some sweet-faced slip of a girl, c) fourteen months too old (not that he was counting), and d) not on a steadily dwindling list of names. She was also sitting opposite his desk and excogitating rather fluently on an analogy between molecular chemistry and graffiti. He smiled; she’d been paying attention in his lectures.

“Brilliant as usual, Ms. Potts,” he began before being interrupted by a knock at the door. Was that his next appointment already? He glanced at the clock. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you over time; please, come in,” he continued, turning his attention to the door.

“Bill! There you are!” A pair of brunettes poked their heads in, one oddly familiar in dress and jumper, the other in thick glasses and bowtie. “Come on, Heather’s waiting.”

“Friends of yours?” He squinted at the shorter girl. 

“Yes, Doctor.” She stressed this last word the way most women her age would stress _Dad_. “I have got friends of my own.”

“Good, good,” he continued absently. Where had he seen that girl before? And where was his secretary?

“I, uh, better go; see you next week?” He nodded his reply as yet another woman strode into his office, Nardole in her wake like a hairless bit of jetsam.

“Sorry, sir; she insisted, sir. I told her you were in an appointment with a student, sir,” Nardole began hastily.

“DI Stewart, Scotland Yard,” the newcomer introduced herself, ignoring Nardole’s fawning. The brief, collective silence was broken by two gasps, then the puff of an inhaler. Stewart’s eyes tracked the latter sound with near-military intensity. 

“I’ll, um,” another pull on the inhaler, “I’ll be waiting outside for when you get done in here.” 

The policewoman nodded, mouth open a little. Then her training snapped back into control and her focus returned to John. “It’s your sister.”

He groaned. “Not again.” He slammed a hand into his desk. “Thank you for telling me in person, Detective Inspector. I’ll be in touch with the station if I hear anything.”

“Much appreciated, Dr. Smith. If you’ll excuse me?...” As his office door closed behind DI Stewart he can hear her muffled conversation with the young woman with the inhaler and the bowtie, and what he thinks is the name of a local diner.

“Try the natural history museum on campus!” he yelled. Then he realized that Bill, Nardole, and the weirdly-familiar one were still in his office.

“I’ll, erm, get back to work,” Nardole said, literally bowing out.

“Say hi to Heather for me; I think I’m going to have to take a rain check on girls’ night.”

“You sure? You were looking forward to this all week?”

“That was before I was going to be the third wheel. Now _get_.”

Bill raised an eyebrow to her afro, but bounced out of his office, bag in hand. That left him alone with _her_.

“Third wheel, huh? Nobody special in your life?” He regretted the words immediately.

“I don’t know,” she breathed, undoing the buttons of her cardigan. (Good, he thought absurdly: his office was actually getting warmer and it wasn’t merely his perception that was changing. That would have been unusual.) “Is there?” 

“I, ah, have no idea. Do I know you?” He fidgeted with the zip on his hoodie.

“We’ve met.” Her eyes rolled at the blank look in his. “Let me put it this way: I’m hoping that you’ll be that special someone, just for tonight.” Her eyes flicked to his desk. “Or maybe just for right now.” He gaped at her, and all she was doing was tugging off her cardigan. “Cancel your appointments for the rest of the day.”

Gods, how could he resist that voice? Those full, red lips? That too-wide face? He fumbled for his desk phone. “Nardole? Something’s come up.” _I’ll bet_ , she mouthed. “I need to free up the rest of my calendar for the day,” he managed as she stepped out of her heels and around his desk. “N-no! Nothing I need a hand with.” She arched one perfect eyebrow and parted his legs. “In fact,” he coughed to cover the sudden zip of his fly, “why don’t you take the rest of the day for yourself?” This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t the sort of thing that happened in the real world, not to lonely middle-aged professors; this was the sort of thing lonely middle-aged professors fantasized about and wrote about and pretended was modern literature. Real life doesn’t give you smoky winks and plant smouldering kisses on your lips. This was some sort of dream or simulation or hallucination. Any minute now, Nardole would walk in and everything would go back to normal.

She dropped to her knees just as the door opened behind her. “Are you sure you’re feeling well, sir?” Definitely still there. Not a hallucination, and if Nardole was going to make appearances in his sex dreams he needed to have strong words with his unconscious. 

“Perfectly fine.” He gripped the armrests of his chair as nonchalantly as he could. “Never better, in fact.” _Is that a challenge?_ he could hear her say.

“You look a bit peaky, is all.” Her tongue swirled around his tip. 

“Might be going down with something coming around.” He coughed again, and corrected himself as her fingers formed a ring and began to stroke. “Coming down with something going around.” 

Nardole raised an invisible eyebrow with concern. “Should I fetch you something?”

“Yes! No-oo.” He whined. “Look, Nardole, I’m about to--mmm---take off for the day. No sense in you going in and out on my account.” He spared a glance into his lap, at the smirk around his cock, bobbing back and forth. 

“If you’re absolutely sure, sir.” Suspicion clouded his words.

“Nardole, if you do not go this instant, I shall give you the sack.” As if on cue, her palm cupped his crown jewels. 

“Whatever you say, sir,” Nardole replied in a tone which was diametrically opposed to the subservient words. For a change, he let his secretary have the last word, but met his glare until the door was closed behind him. Then, and only then, did he let out a long moan and a humiliatingly powerful orgasm.

“I always wanted to do that.” The woman stood up from beneath his desk and wiped her mouth. She laughed. “Fuck, that was hot. I’m absolutely soaked. Please tell me you’re going to return the favor,” she begged, sitting on the edge of his desk.

“I get three questions.”

“Three questions? Who’s the boss here?”

“Three questions, or no deal.”

“One now, and two later?” She lifted her hips and removed panties soaked to translucency.

“Deal. Are you a student here?”

“Nope.”

“Good.” He sank to his knees for her, breath still ragged and hot against her thighs, fingers stiff from crushing the armrests of his chair deft against the muscles of her arse, cupping her and pulling her closer, letting his tongue fill her.

“Fuck! Jesus, fuck!” she groaned, thudding one bare heel against his back. One hand threaded into his hair; the other yanking frantically at her dress, tearing it to free one sensitive breast. “Fuck, fuck!” Her fingers pinched her nipple as his lips closed around and suctioned her clit. “So close,” she begged. Hell, she’d been close before, just from listening to him before. Now...Oh, and there were fingers, too. She let herself go, spilling out over him and his magnificent desk. “Ahh…” She sagged back onto essays and journals, heedless of the photographs she knocked over, the papers she sent fluttering, exhausted, to the floor. “Give us a minute, yeah? Then I’ll answer anything you like.” She swallowed a few gasping breaths. “Don’t suppose this is one of those professor’s offices with a bar hidden in a globe or something?”

“I’ll see what I can manage,” he said, standing up back into her view. Hair a mess, face soaked with her. 

“I think I’m in love,” she laughed as he set something down next to her head, something cold and alcoholic. “Mm, nice and cool,” she sighed, turning her head to press against the icy glass.

“I’ll never be able to look at that desk the same way again.”

“‘M not sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He shucked off his coat and his hoodie to lean back in his chair with his drink and his debauchery. “Question number two when you’re ready: can you see in color?”

Her eyes raked over him until she was satisfied that he was serious. “As far as I know, I’ve always been able to see in color.” She took a gulp of her drink and shook her head. “Got teased about it as a kid.” She blushed, or maybe that was just the exertion. “And question number three?” 

A dozen questions raced through his brain as she tugged her dress back into place: Why were you at that bar? Are you up for round two in a minute? Coffee? Chips? Chips and coffee? 

“What’s your name?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Really?” He met her eyes unhesitatingly. “Clara. Clara Oswald.” She blinked as his gaze faltered. “You okay?”

So much for platonic, he thought. “I think I’ve been waiting for you for your entire life.” He paused. “Sorry, did that sound too ridiculous?”

“Tiny bit.”

“Mm.” He contemplated his gin and tonic; alcohol was much better at focusing the brain when it wasn’t in one’s bloodstream. He needed more time. “Trade you: a question for a question.”

“Hardly seems fair given that the previous rate was a third of an orgasm.” She sized him up. “Take your kit off.”

“No. Definitely not.” She pouted; he caved. Damnit. “Just the shirt and the boots.”

“Deal, and I go first. What was the cop talking about? You need to bail your sister out? Because I can take a raincheck.”

He groaned and downed his remaining liquid courage. “The opposite, actually. She’s broken out. Again.”

“Black sheep?”

“Also the opposite: I’m the white sheep of the family. Although now it’s just the two of us.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” He kicked his boots off and fussed with his shirt until it was free of his fluffed-out hair. “My turn.” Oswald, Oswald... And that too-round face… 

“If you’re going to stare, I can take the dress off, give you your money’s worth. Don’t worry,” she added to his panicked face, “I don’t charge.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he responded automatically. “Sorry, just trying to picture you younger.”

“I’m going to assume you’re trying to remember where you’ve met me before and aren’t just a pedophile.” He nodded absently. “I should probably be worried that I was able to figure that out.”

“Almost certainly.” He tapped the rim of his glass and...yes. “The girl at the pub! And…” he squinted, shaved another half-decade off, “at Amy and Rory’s house?”

“Ooh, he’s good. Two for two.” She grinned and finished her drink. “So I should probably throw this one in for free: I lied before.” She stood and sashayed over to where she had left her shoes. “I, um, actually am a student here.” She shrugged. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

His mouth soured around the question he had been about to ask. “When do you graduate?” he blurted out instead.

“Six months. I, ah, should probably go?” He nodded soundlessly.

The door shut behind her. He looked down at himself, half-drunk and half-naked, cock out and limp, utterly undone by a girl half his age. A girl who stood a very real chance of being his soulmate. A girl who could do impossible things with her mouth. And, lest he forget, a girl who was one of the students at the university. “Fuck,” he spat bitterly. More gin. Then clothes, and home for a cold shower. “Fuck,” he echoed to his empty office.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and John each have an unexpected visitor in the night...

That was a success, Clara decided, humming as she shut the door of her flat behind her. Now she was home alone with the weekend to look forward to. Things could be better--she could be cuddling that adorably flustered professor--but as far as first adult dates went, not bad at all.

“Finally,” breezed a voice that should have been holding a gun. “Between your puerile literature collection and your gloomy prints of dead emperors, I was reconsidering my decision to let you live. It’s polite to say hello, by the way.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Not even close.”

“Who the hell are you, and why are you here?” Clara snapped.

“Language!” The older woman pressed a hand to her mouth, then lowered it to point at Clara. “I’m here because _you_ decided you liked the taste of my favorite brother. Well. Only brother. Missy Smith. Do let’s be friends.”

“Oh god, you _are_ here to murder me.”

“Haven’t you been listening? I said I was going to let you live. On a provisional basis. Unless you do wrong by John. He said he had found his soulmate; he didn’t say it was you. Or if you insist on continuing to search for a weapon. It’s cute how you don’t think I’ve noticed.” She rolled her eyes with a melodramatic sigh. “And have a seat, for pity’s sake. Or don’t, it’s your flat. Like I couldn’t catch you.”

“Hang on,” Clara sat and leaned forward, morbidly fascinated. “Is this a shovel talk? Because if it is, it’s oddly sweet of you.”

The ghost of a genuine smile haunted Missy’s face. “He’s all I have.” She banished the ghost. “Never tell him that. Now, where was I?”

“Over-the-top death threats.”

“Cheeky. But correct. Ahem. I have a stewpot in your size. If you’re lucky, you’ll be dead before you see the inside.” She beamed. “Then I get to find out if I like the taste of you.”

“...aaannnd we’re back to creepy. Can you go now? Because otherwise I’m going to have to offer you tea.”

“I’ll try not to be too affronted. Ciao!” She punctuated this last with a clack of her teeth.

“Definitely creepy,” Clara muttered to herself, flicking on the telly. 

“--and, in local news, escaped conwoman turned cannibal serial killer Missy Smith was sighted…” Clara stopped paying attention to what the news anchor was saying, utterly distracted by the picture on the screen.

“Oh, hell no. She’s _that_ Missy Smith?” Tea and telly forgotten, Clara packed a bag. Like fun she was going to spend the night here when a psychopath knew where she lived and how to break in without a trace. Bill was probably going to be busy tonight, but maybe Mels or Ashildr would put her up on a sofa until she could find a new place. First things first…

***

“What are you doing here? And why are you lugging that enormous bag around?”

“You might have warned me your escaped sister was the twisted love-child of Bernie Madoff and Hannibal Lecter! And this is a perfectly normal bag.”

“Not compared to you, it isn’t. And I can’t imagine why I wanted to keep my family ties to the queen of evil a secret.”

She scowled with the unfairness of it, but he was right. “She told me that if I didn’t treat you right, she’d kill me.”

“So you’re moving in? Awful forward of you, but I’ve got a spare room. No!” He held up a finger. “Don’t pout. You’re a student here, remember.”

“Not your student,” she muttered. “Anyway, I was going to ask a friend.”

“Might as well stay here if you’re worried about Missy. The police are going to be watching my flat anyway in case she tries to contact me. And DI Stewart and I go way back. She’s as professional as they come.”

[“Not now,” Kate gasped frantically, “Osgood, fuck, I’m on a stakeout, Os, Os…” The brunette grinned and licked her fingers.]

“Suppose that’ll do for the night.” She sighed. And since she’d have to leave early to avoid ruining his career as a professor, she’d have all the hassle of the walk of shame without the fun bits. Unless… She shook her head. If nothing else, she was about ready to pass out where she stood. “Please don’t think less of me for taking an early night.” He nodded and gave her directions to the guest room.

She was asleep in minutes.

***

Clara awoke the next morning surprisingly refreshed considering she had her life threatened the night before. She washed and dressed before making her way downstairs, following the sound of a guitar. “I didn’t know you played.” He shrugged. “What’s the name of the song?”

He finished the phrase before responding. “Clara. I was thinking. Do you have any plans for the day?”

“Didn’t have any, why?” She followed him as he put down the guitar and rummaged through a stack of books, finally laying his hands on a map of Great Britain. 

“Anywhere you want.” He held up a warning finger. “One caveat: it has to be amazing.” He grinned and brushed off his ratty jumper.

“Anywhere I want? And what, we just go on an adventure together?” He raised an eyebrow in invitation. “Just the two of us?” She considered the possibilities. A trip to somewhere they could just be themselves, not maybe-soulmates, not professor and student...

“Just the two of us. No murder relatives, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that. And you never answered my question: what was the name of that song?”

“Didn’t I?” His face was blank and a pair of sunglasses hid his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Clara have an adventure, but not everything is happiness and bliss.

“St. Michael’s Mount, here we come!” John clapped his hands.

“You don’t think a castle is a little corny?” Clara asked, making John groan. 

“Honestly, I think it’s brilliant. Haven’t been to a proper castle in a long time. Probably not since I was a little tyke. As long as it doesn’t rain,” he snatched two umbrellas from the back of his car, “we should have a marvelous time.”

“Come on, then! I want to cross the causeway while the tides are still out.”

“Fancy getting trapped on an island, do you?” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Alone in the company of a strangely compelling masculine figure?” That was just a bit of friendly banter, right? Shite. He cursed himself as soon as he said it.

She shoved him playfully. “You know they have boats that run back and forth every ten minutes, right?” Still, she had to admit, the thought had its appeal. Perhaps spending the night together. In a purely platonic way. Maybe. 

“I said, are you close to your family?”

Clara blinked. “Not really,” she admitted. “Well, my gran. But I wouldn’t have wanted to spring myself on her.”

“Whereas you had no trouble accepting my offer.”

“ _You_ aren’t a pensioner.”

“Just old.”

“Distinguished.” _That_ made him perk up. She grinned. Maybe he could see things her way after all. “Lord of the castle, maybe. Lots of castles in Scotland, yeah?”

“Yeah…” His voice trailed off. “Haven’t been back there in a while. No family either.”

“Sorry.”

He scoffed. “Don’t be. Come on, let’s get tickets!”

***

“You know,” he began as they ducked off to explore further, “the spiral staircases are a defense mechanism.” 

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Explain.”

His eyes sparkled as he brandished an umbrella. She stifled a laugh and drew hers in return. “If you’re defending, you would be at the top of the step. Not only do you have the height advantage (“Ahem.” “Well, less of a height disadvantage.”) but if you were right-handed, you can also swing your sword freely whereas I, on the attack…” He mimed a few practice sweeps to demonstrate, letting her parry and move backwards up the steps.

“All very Robin Hood,” she gasped as he started mock-fighting in earnest. “Love it.”

“Have you done this before?” She nodded, to his surprise. That gave her the chance to press her attack, sending him backwards...and arse over teakettle. I didn’t realize her eyes could get any wider, he thought as he sailed backwards. She grabbed for him, and, arms tangled, came careening after him. 

“I am so sorry!”

“Oof. Naturally hard head, don’t mind me.” That wasn’t the only thing naturally hard at the moment, he realized. “The, ah, uneven steps are also a defense mechanism. Home turf and all that.”

“So I see.” She giggled and his head grew light. Hopefully that wasn’t because of internal bleeding. “Thanks for breaking my fall.”

“Hopefully that was the only thing I broke,” he quipped. “Probably going to have the mother of all goose eggs, though.”

Clara instinctively brought her hand up to check. “Yup.” Their eyes met, their noses brushed, their breath mingled in the damp castle air. “Oh, you’re bleeding!” 

“Bugger!”

“Come on, let’s see if we can get you bandaged up.” Clara considered their predicament. “I, uh, may need to clamber over you.”

“I’ll avert my eyes.”

“If you insist.” She winked.

***

“Hold still,” she insisted, dabbing carefully with some damp paper towels.

“Your hands feel nice,” he complained, fidgeting on the bench until he felt her glare boring into him. “Yes, boss.”

“That’s better.” She surveyed her handiwork, resisting the urge to run her fingers through his hair, then passed him a makeshift cold compress. “Keep that in place.” Her mission complete, she perched beside him on the bench. “At least the gardens are nice.” She smiled at the colors of the flowers.

“True. Thanks again.”

“Least I could do.” He smiled instinctively. (Why was he smiling?) He yawned, then winced. “Did I tire you out?”

By way of reply, he tipped over on the bench so that his head was in her lap. “Utterly exhausted. You shall have to go on without me.”

She laughed, setting her eyes a-twinkle, and there was that light-headed feeling again. “Come on, you silly fool, there’s plenty of exploration left in you.”

***

There had, in fact, been lots more running around to do that day, leaving her rather sweaty. Also lots of flirting and slightly awkward touching, leaving her rather horny. Well, she could handle both of those. “Right, I’m just going to grab a shower and get changed for bed, then!” 

“Towels in the cupboard on the left; bathroom’s the second door to the right up the steps.”

That was...unfortunately businesslike. Well, onto phase two, she thought. Shower time.

At the end of her shower, she was clean and disappointingly unfucked. Okay, she mused, I can appreciate someone who plays hard to get. “John? I forgot to bring a nightie? Mind if I grab something of yours?” She left a perfectly-calibrated pause, then added “Course, I could always do without.” _That_ earned her some hastily muttered directions to his bedroom and the correct shelf. She ignored the shelf and went for the closet. She appraised the bedroom, then herself: one bed, one nightstand, one mirror. Hair just a little untidy, just enough cleavage, knickers? Knickers. There is such a thing as too keen. She looked back at the bed, the comfortable sheets, the posts practically begging for a spread-eagled John to be tied to them. On second thought, no knickers.

“This okay?” she asked as she sidled downstairs. 

“I, um, yes. Fine.” Guilt shaded his eyes; he was trying very, very hard to look at her and not look at her at the same time. It wasn’t working. “How, ah, are you? You don’t look well.”

“Fine,” she grumped. This was the longest anyone had held out against the old “I’m wearing one of your button-down shirts and not a stitch else” trick. She _had_ sucked him off yesterday; maybe he couldn’t...her eyes flicked down to his crotch. Nope, that wasn’t it. “I’ll just be over here, raiding your library.” She flung herself down on the sofa with a paperback, determined not to accept defeat. “Awfully cozy over here.” He nodded curtly. Bastard. She gave him two furiously-skimmed chapters before she began unloading the heavy artillery. First one button, then another. Then a yawn, just to draw his eye. Then the stretch, curled toes and all. It didn’t leave much to the imagination. 

Finally, he sighed. “I’m not taking you to bed.” [“But!” “No!”] “I’m a professor, you’re a student, and that’s that. I have a duty of care to you, and I don’t intend to breach it for one night of pleasure, no matter how--” his eyes caught on the vee of her borrowed shirt “--tempting.” It would be worse if they were, in fact, soulmates; then it would be an express ban on teaching at the same school she attended rather than mere disapprobation.

Clara groaned. “I know, and I’m really sorry. You’ve been good enough to let me stay after I seduced you, lied to you, then betrayed your trust by trying to make you behave inappropriately toward a student. It’s just...I don’t know what it is about you. And it’s not just the silver fox thing, which is definitely a thing, though I do prefer something more age-appropriate in my female lovers, you know, in case you’re going shopping. It’s just...something about you. And you clearly seem drawn to me, at least when you can be arsed to let your guard down. I’m sorry, I’ll go. I’ll get dressed, see if I can crash on Ashildr’s futon or something.” She rose and left the book.

“Wait!” His eyes beckoned to her. “Do you really think I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference?”

“No. No, you don’t get to say that to me. Not yet.” Fire erupted in her eyes. “I’m the girl who keeps flinging herself at you and you’re the old man--” and she hoped that hurt “--who keeps leading me on, then pushing me away for one reason or another. So I’m going. Not like I was even here long enough to unpack.”

“Clara, I--” The slam of the door was all the punctuation his sentence received.

***

“Clara, what a pleasant--” Ashildr stopped and made Clara realize that she hadn’t changed her outfit since she’d stomped out of John’s house. “Please tell me this is one of those nights that ends with spanking, fingering, and drinking.”

“Worse. I think it’s one of those nights that starts there and ends with me asking for advice.”

“I’ll fetch the crop; you stay here and try to make better life choices.”

Later, when Ashildr was wearing nothing but welts, she reclined at the head of the bed. “I’ll wait. Until you’re ready to talk.”

“You remembered?” 

“Despite your best efforts.” She smirked.

Clara sipped her wine in silence. “There’s a man. Older. A professor here, in fact.”

“I recommend the maths department.”

“You know I could see colors for as long as I can remember. And I keep running into him. This is three times now.” She recounted their history. “I just thought...third time was a charm, you know. Sorry, that sounded better inside my head.” She wrinkled her nose at the wine. 

“So you wind up with a perfect excuse to spend the week with him and you piss on it because he doesn’t want to shag you for six months until you graduate?” 

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Which is why you keep coming back to me for advice. And shagging.” Ashildr closed her eyes. “Such good shagging.”

“So, what should I do?”

“Go back there in the morning, you idiot! Spend time with him, get to know him better, see if he is, in fact, the one. But for now, come here and cuddle, you heartless cow.”

“You’re the worst.”

Ashildr grinned.

***

By the time Clara woke the next morning, Ashildr was gone. “Scrambled eggs don’t serve themselves,” read her note. Right, Clara thought. She worked at some chrome monstrosity to help make rent. She helped herself to breakfast, and while she ate she printed notes. By the time she was fed and dressed, she had an outline of the Talk she was going to give John. 

“...so, in conclusion, I was a right arse to you last night. I abused your trust and your hospitality because I wasn’t doing any thinking above my waist. But I...worked through some things last night. And I want to give us another try, because the time we had together was so perfect.” She had almost finished her last rehearsal by the time she reached the steps of his house. “So I was thinking that--what the hell?” Taped to his door was a typed notice. “Apologies for the lack of notice...unscheduled sabbatical...classes to be covered by Dr. Jones and Prof. Smith…” A single salt drop splashed onto the paper and she hastily stuck it back on the door then wiped her eyes before anyone could see. “You bastard…” She closed her eyes and gave in to the ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the ending!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara copes with losing John, and makes some fateful choices.

What literature there was on the subject of tracking down your soulmate after losing touch with him all suggested the same thing: do what comes naturally. So Clara swallowed deep and went on with her schooling and the rest of her life. And that meant spending her last term as a student teacher.

And that, Clara thought with a groan, meant surviving three months of Courtney Woods, god help her.

“First day?” 

“That obvious?” Clara bit the tip of her tongue. “I’m feeling better already, thanks.” 

“I can walk in again if you think it’ll help.” The smooth-voiced man grinned.

“Come on instead.” Clara patted the next cushion down on the couch. 

“Don’t mind if I do.” He extended a hand. “Danny Pink.” He winced. “Please don’t laugh.”

“Furthest thing from my mind,” Clara said, her giddy eyes telling a slightly different story. “Clara Oswald. Or, hopefully, the girl you’re buying a drink tonight.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

***

“I always wanted to travel,” she told him later that night. “Never found the time.”

“Maybe you just needed someone to travel with.” His hands closed around his pint.

“Yeah…” The pause hung between them. “What about you?”

“I’ve...been to see some different places. Don’t like to talk about it much.”

“Come on,” Clara prodded. “Not even a hint.”

“Not on a first date,” he replied, his levity false.

***

“Finally! We were starting to worry about where we were going to send the invite for Anthony’s graduation. Where have you been, you old fool?”

“Nowhere I’ve been able to hear that familiar Scots tongue, Pond.”

“You’re being cryptic. _And_ you left under mysterious circumstances. For the record, there is no such thing as an emergency sabbatical.” He could hear Amy’s eyes narrowing, her face lined now but no less beautiful for it. “Is it something to do with your sister?”

He sighed. “Only very indirectly. Do you have time?” he asked before recounting his...encounter (sounded better than courtship) of Miss Clara Oswald. 

“You swanned off with nothing more than a typed note on the door?” Her mouth gaped. “You’ve got to make it up to her. Do you think soulmates grow on trees?”

“I don’t know…” something Amy had said reverberated in him. “Amelia Pond, you are a genius.”

***

Clara’s heart fluttered as her graduating class scattered in slow-motion, sweating under the familiar black robes and the hugs of friends and family. She scanned the crowd for her grandmother and Danny; was still searching when a tap came on her shoulder.

“Clara! I suppose congratulations are--”

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” She jabbed a finger into his middle, making him wince more in shame than in pain. “You leave for six months--six months!--and just come back without a word in between?”

“When you put it that way, it does seem rather crass.” He fumbled in his pocket. “I had a script for this--” 

Clara grabbed his hands, making him freeze. “Don’t. I’ve moved on.”

“Clara, please.” He sighed. “I was an idiot. I was trying to do what was best for you; you know there are rules about having a supervisory position over your soulmate.” He shut his eyes. “I can’t control you; I don’t think you can be controlled. If you love another, I can’t stop you. But...perhaps we could be friends.”

Damnit. It would be easy if he just wanted to walk away, and if he wanted to force the issue romantically, well, Danny was very sweet. But to have that offer, that temptation… “Fine,” she began patiently. “So, how have you been?”

“Traveling, mostly. Wandering, learning.” He grinned. “Tell you more later. This is your moment, after all. What are your plans?”

Not prying for details about your trip. Not tugging you into a corner and snogging you to within an inch of your life. Not throwing my boring boyfriend to the wind and running off with you. “I--” She spotted Danny, coming closer, a bouquet of flowers in his arms. _I love you._ “Oh, you know, going to start teaching, domestic bliss with the new boyfriend. And, actually, I should go.”

“Of course.” He slumped, just a little. “I’ll let you go.”

Her hand rose unbidden to his cheek. “Stay in touch, yeah? Maybe come by this Wednesday?”

“Yeah,” and he let her walk out of his life.

***

Clara was terrified. Which was strange because she’s lying on her bed, staring at her phone. There were two questions that she had dreaded that Danny would ask her. One: will you marry me? (“Yes,” she had told him; how could she refuse him?) Two: can you see in color? She knew he couldn’t. It doesn’t bother him, the calm bastard; he said there are lots of people who have platonic soulmates and marry someone else, that he loved her and that’s what matters.

Except.

Except she didn’t know if she loved him. Except she knew her bond with John--and they’ve all but confirmed that they are bonded to one another though they haven’t gone in for screening--was anything but platonic. Every time she saw the older man she wanted to jump his bones, it seemed. She chewed her lip. She felt like she was having an affair, but she hadn’t touched John since Danny had proposed; they’ve barely talked. She was good at not talking about things. Damnit.

In a flurry of motion she sprang out of bed, over to the telephone and the clutter of post-it notes she had made for herself. She dialed Danny’s mobile and waited, bouncing on the balls of her feet as it rings.

“Hey, gorgeous, what’s up?”

“Danny, I have something to tell you.” Without waiting for a response, she barreled on. “I’ve been able to see in color my whole life. I have a soulmate, and I’ve met him. We had sex once, before I met you, so I’m pretty sure it’s not platonic. I understand entirely if you need a little time to process this, or if you want to call off the wedding, or if you never want to see me again.” She waited. “Danny?”

“Hello?” 

“Danny?” The voice on the other end was middle-aged, female. “Please put Danny back on.”

“I’m so sorry...I think there’s been a terrible accident…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha-ha, oops? Sorry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clara wants to meet Ashildr for dinner, nearly meets Missy for dinner, and does meet John for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content/trigger warnings in end notes

After Danny d-- After Danny had been-- Afterward, (John had offered his condolences. It was a lovely card.) Clara had finished out her year at Coal Hill. The work was good for her, she told anyone who asked. Kept her mind busy. She tried not to think about the young faces, the children she and Danny would never raise together. The summer, at least, removed that thorn but left her at a loss.

So she dialed up Ashildr. “Wanna go for a trip?” A holiday with her best fuckbuddy sounded like the way to go.

“Are we talking Airbnb and hostels or cruise ships and caviar?”

“On a schoolteacher’s salary?” Clara laughed. “Definitely that first one.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you aren’t going to get all weepy on me, are you? Because if you are going to be bemoaning your dearly departed fiance, I’d rather not be doing it in a room I’m renting for a hundred quid.”

“I’ll keep it together, I promise.” She could do this. She had allowed herself five minutes of unremitting grief per day. It seemed to work.

“That’s my girl.” Ashildr made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a blown kiss. “Now, should I pack the sexy knickers?”

“Hmm…” Clara tried to make her indecision sound flirtatious. “Yeah. Definitely pack the good stuff. The black lacy pair?”

“You know, if I pack all my good knickers, I won’t have any to wear the day we leave.” Clara’s heart stopped at that image.

“Minx. I’ll pick you up after work on Friday? That’ll give me two days to get my things together.” She hung up only to feel a sharp jab to the side of her neck.

“Three, two, one,” sing-songed a familiar voice before blackness swallowed her. Gloved hands slung Clara over a purple shoulder and dropped a folded piece of stationery.

***

Clara awoke, head throbbing. She was naked and tied at the wrists and ankles. The last thing she remembered was talking to Ashildr. “Ashildr?..” Somehow this didn’t feel like a scene.

“Nope! Not your even-more-bite-sized friend.” Clara wriggled around to face the voice. “It’s me, darling.” She stared into the depths of Clara’s eyes. “You didn’t think I was kidding when I said I was going to kill and eat you if you did my brother wrong, did you?”

“Wh-what?”

Missy ignored her. “I tried to be generous with you, let you work through your college flings, mature like a fine wine. But then you had to go and get engaged to someone who wasn’t your soulmate.” Missy rolled her eyes. “Let me tell you, I hope Johnny-boy appreciates the trouble I went to, stalking your boo and running him down.” She twirled the knife in her hands. “It lacks craft and subtlety, but there is something exquisite yet primal about the thud and crunch of vehicular homicide.”

“Oh, I will kill you,” Clara frothed, struggling against her bonds.

“Kill me? Over a man you didn’t even love?” Missy hooted. “That is rich.” The tip of the knife flicked down to the hollow of Clara’s throat. “Now stay still before you damage yourself. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to boil you or roast you. Thoughts?”

***

John whistled as he mounted the steps to Clara’s flat. He was comfortable enough with their weekly [not dates, the back of his mind insisted] excursions with her. If they turned into something more, so be it, but he wasn’t going to be the one to force it. He tugged on the lapels of his coat.

His eyebrows arched together as he tapped on her door and found it slightly ajar. “Clara?” The flat seemed immaculate as ever; a folded sheet of lavender paper caught his eye, his name written on the top. “Oh, Clara, my Clara,” he murmured as he read. “Missy,” he concluded through gritted teeth. The note was an address followed by two words: _Come alone_. 

***

Half an hour of rather more intense driving than his boxy blue beater was used to, John was outside the rundown estate. Arms flailing, he ran to the door and with a frantic kick broke it down. “Clara! Missy! I’m coming.”

“John!” Clara’s voice, then a scuffle. His stride lengthened as he homed unerringly on the sound, guided, perhaps, by some sixth sense as he leapt heaps of rubbish and mounted the stairs to the next story. “John,” Clara breathed as she lay unharmed on the table.

“John,” Missy simpered mockingly. “You two really need to get over yourselves and shag. Not right now, brother dear; even I have my limits.”

“What have you done to her?” Under the rich fabric of his coat, the muscles of his forearms tightened as his fists closed. 

“This may just be the sedative she used on me talking,” Clara began. (“Don’t worry, it’s non-toxic,” Missy assured them. “Wouldn’t want to give myself a tummyache.”) “But you look really good in that coat, framed against the door like that. Just, y’know, saying.”

Missy gagged. “Sorry, I am still standing here with a knife? Could we maybe pay a teensy bit more attention to that fact?”

“Yeah, I ordinarily don’t have much patience for the damsel in distress thing, but right now, I could really use some rescuing,” Clara chimed in. 

“Missy, run. Before I change my mind.”

Missy rolled her eyes. “When you put it like that…” She curtseyed, and smashed giddily through the window to the fire escape. (She grinned at the thought of her successful plan.)

“Are you just going to let her go?” Clara asked as John draped his coat over her and freed her from the ropes.

“She asked me to come alone. She didn’t ask me not to tell the police. I suspect she enjoys the thrill of outrunning them. But now she’s Scotland Yard’s to take care of, and you are mine.” He paused as he finished sawing through the ties around her ankles. “That came out kind of possessive.”

“Tiny bit. Mind you, I think you’re also mine.” Clara sat up and put her sore wrists through the arms of the coat. “So, what do we do now?” Her eyes met his until he looked down shyly, realized he was staring at her, and looked off to the side. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to suggest a shag. Even though we are alone and I’m just wearing your coat. Setting a little grotty, frankly, and one grand romantic gesture is no substitute for a real relationship.” She placed a tender kiss on his cheek. “Mind you, it was a pretty grand gesture. So how about we start working on that relationship?”

***

They had been meeting every Wednesday for a few months before Missy had kidnapped Clara. Sometimes it had been just the two of them; sometimes friends or colleagues joined them. But this felt different, John fretted as he adjusted his outfit. Not just because this was explicitly the two of them. Not just because it was dinner at a classy Italian restaurant. But. Well. She had said ‘relationship,’ and that was something he had embarrassingly little experience with given his age. 

He exhaled and fixed his cuffs for what he promised himself was the last time. Then he drove to Mancini’s for a date.

He thought he managed to look rather less terrified than he felt when he finally joined Clara at the table. “Good to see you.” This was an understatement; she looked incredible. “So. Wine?”

“Please.” She smiled. “Bit tame compared to our last meeting.”

“I like to save things like bank robbery and exploding trains until after the first date,” he deadpanned, but he couldn’t help smiling as Clara giggled. 

“You know, I think I can handle a bit of boring.” She flexed her hands. “So. There are some things _people like us_ should say to each other. Elephant in the room. We might be soulmates.”

“It...seems likely.” He released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “We could go in and get tested.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to assure me you haven’t got the clap. Which we should probably also confirm.” She reached out for his hands as he looked away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I am a right arse sometimes.” There was a lengthy battery of questions, like online dating on steroids, which prospective couples could take; unfortunately it wasn’t as easy as a simple blood draw. The pressure of her thumbs on the back of his hands was nice, though. “What was it like, growing up without being able to see color?”

“Red Rover didn’t make any sense while I was young enough to play,” he kidded. “More seriously...it wasn’t that big a deal. Nearly everybody couldn’t through about middle school, which is about when the average child starts to outgrow teasing.”

“Yeah. I remember.” Clara snorted. “They used to call me ‘Impossible Girl,’ because I claimed that I could always see color. I thought maybe there was something wrong with me. I know better now, of course.” His heart fluttered as she smiled at him. 

“That...sounds difficult.” He fumbled for the right words.

“It was. But I was very close to my parents. Until my mum died.” His stammering grew worse. “Sorry, am I oversharing?” Clara asked. 

“No.” He took a deep breath, recentered himself. “You can tell me anything.”

“That’s why I was at that bar, the night I met you.” She looked at the glass in her hand, took another sip of liquid courage. “I...needed to get away for a while. It sounds silly, doesn’t it? It looks silly, looking back now. I feel like I’ve been wanting to run from everything but I guess it’s like Socrates said: the one thing you always take with you is yourself.”

“And now you can take me,” he added, closing his hands over hers. He smiled at her like they were the only two people in the restaurant. 

“I might just accept that offer.” How could she resist?

***

Two months later…

“I can’t believe we wasted so much time,” John lamented as they walked back up to their house from their car.

“We weren’t ready then. And we can’t fix it now.” She called him back to her with a kiss. “But if you want to make up for lost time…”

“I might have a few ideas about that,” he agreed, voice low and his hand lower, dipping to sneak beneath her skirt. 

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she whispered, fumbling with the door as he pressed her against it, his callused fingers tracking up the soft skin of her thighs to her underthings. They stumbled in as the door sprang open, John nearly falling out of his coat. She caught herself on the staircase to the second floor and sat down hard, toeing off her shoes. “Oh, god, this isn’t anything like I’d envisioned!” She barked a laugh before he pulled her panties down and off. “And you know, I can’t imagine it being any better. Strip for me.” Gladly he unbuttoned his shirt and the fly of his trousers, working his way out of them with a little grace and a lot of cleverness before falling to his knees before her. “God, yes…” she hissed as his curls vanished beneath her skirt, his tongue claimed her. She pressed his head against her nethers, arching her back with an unrestrained moan. 

“Good?”

She nodded, head heavy and flush with blood. “Very. Haven’t been with a man since Danny.” She would have blushed further, if possible. “More in a ruined for other men way than a turned-gay way, fear not.”

“Heh. How are you feeling?”

“Little weak in the knees. So if you want my dress off, that may be up to you.”

“This is the one that zips down the back?” 

“All the way down,” she echoed, sensing what he was about to do just before he rolled her over. The metallic sound tracked down her spine, followed by the whisper of cool air and the press of his lips, worshipping each inch of skin as it was revealed. 

“Is this what you want?” he asked, his tip blunt against her, passing up and down along the lips of her entrance.

“I think I wanted it from the first time I remember seeing you,” she teased. “I don’t think even soulmate laws permit sexual contact that young.”

“Kinky little thing.” He slid into her.

“Fuck,” she pleaded.

“You know I can’t refuse you,” he groaned, taking her with deep, plunging thrusts.

“Come for me, John, want to…” she trailed off as he did just that.

“Sorry,” he gasped. “Didn’t mean to..that quickly…”

“Been a while for both of us,” she admitted. “And first times are meant to be a bit messy, a bit rough.”

“Just means we get to try again better the second time.”

“God knows we’ve had enough in the way of second chances,” Clara laughed, and rolled over to pull him close.

***

“Rory! It’s Clara. Well, Eleanor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just fyi, Missy sedates, ties up, and threatens to kill and eat Clara...which is canon, actually.


End file.
